


wrap me up, unfold me

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Obedience, Sex Toys, Vibrator, Wake-Up Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles falls out of sleep to Erik having fun, and gets looped right in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wrap me up, unfold me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shaking_indigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaking_indigo/gifts).



title: wrap me up, unfold me  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)**ninemoons42**  
word count: approx. 1660  
fandom: X-Men: First Class  
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr. Mention of Edie Lehnsherr and Moira MacTaggert.  
rating: NC-17  
notes: Written for [fulltaildiva-loki](http://fulltaildiva-loki.tumblr.com/), who knows why, and gave me the prompt: fingering and/or toys. Thanks to [afrocurl](http://rozf.tumblr.com/) for the hand-holding. Title and cut text from Sia's "Breathe Me".

  
They’ve been dating for a few months now and they might have sort of agreed to try out the whole exclusivity thing just two weeks ago, and Charles has basically spent all that time getting lost in the ebb and flow of Erik’s mind. Charles knows fascinating; he’s met them and dated them and even gone to bed with some of them, but Erik has pretty much blown everyone else out of the water and if Charles who writes for a living is reduced to trite cliches in his comparisons he lays the blame solely and squarely on Erik’s shoulders, because he’s just that _different_.

There’s Erik’s mind when he’s in his studio, sitting at a battered workbench, surrounded by the metal that moves to his designs whether they be grandly monumental or intricate and small enough to be held in one hand. The corners of that vast space contain World Trees and human figures, and from the ceiling hangs a flock of wing-shapes in glittering suspension, and the workbench plays host to bits and strands of metal coiled and warped and draped around cabochons of faded newsprint, shards of colored glass, and the cogs and toothed gears from a multitude of timepieces.

Every piece in the studio carries an imprint of Erik - who doesn’t need to touch any of his materials to create with them - who leaves his mark on all of them, all the same.

There’s Erik’s mind when he’s in a place that he can think of as _safe_ , a place that he can call _home_ : his mother’s sitting room and its aromas of tea and soup and bread and cheese. The threadbare couch in Moira’s apartment that squeaks if anyone so much as glances at it, and groans loudly when people actually sit down. The end of a library table, when Erik’s pretending to read some moth-eaten old sci-fi paperback but is really just there because Charles is up to his ears in research and references.

It’s difficult to describe, but then again Charles has been wracking his brain on the subject for a while now, and here’s his current attempt: Erik feels safe in those places like he feels it when the metal of his windowsill starts out icy-cold no thanks to another nor’easter, and then it starts warming up, slowly, but eventually perceptibly, when it’s exposed to the diffident winter sun - it’s a gradual settling-in, and Erik is always strangely grateful for that. Which is the reason why Charles knows that Erik rattles the metal touching clothes and skin to let them know he’s there and he’s enjoying himself.

Hence Edie wearing a full suite of jewelry, elegant copper disks, when her son comes to visit; hence Moira walking around in her house with pockets full of loose change and the occasional stray franc coin from some thrift shop or other; hence Charles wearing his battered wristwatch everywhere he goes when it doesn’t fit what he’s wearing, because it’s in blued steel, scratched up beyond saving.

And then, of course, there is Erik’s mind when it’s just the two of them. Rough edges catching on each other, drawing them closer, firmly entangling, so they will always have to be pried apart and it always hurts when that happens, physically or mentally. It’s Erik’s mind that seeks Charles’s out, that reaches for Charles at every opportunity - so Charles has learned to welcome him and carry his presence everywhere: up and down stairs, with every stroke of Charles’s crabbed handwriting, from kitchen to study to the bed where they often spend way too many of their waking hours.

There are days when Charles can’t get enough sleep for Erik thinking, and he’s not going to be the one to tell Erik to pipe down when he knows he’s done the same thing and worse - over _days_ when he’s bearing down on words shaped like THE END - so he just blinks now, muzzy and still aching in several good places, and turns his head, the pillow rustling beneath his cheek.

It takes him a good long minute to figure out what’s going on in the bed, which is strange, when he’s more than familiar with the shape of Erik’s mind when they’re having sex.

Erik’s mind, when they’re lost in each other, is _focus_ : every thought, every movement, every breath, every sound for Charles.

Here, now, Erik is wide awake, and he’s gasping for breath, his eyes are open and unseeing and there are little shivers wracking every inch of him. A fine sheen of sweat on his shoulders, on his chest, on his thighs.

There is a steady undercurrent to Erik’s helpless keening: a steady insidious buzz.

A sound that Charles now knows all too well, and not just because he’d been in control of it all throughout yesterday afternoon: when Erik had come over, unannounced but not unexpected, never unexpected, declaring that he’d scotched an entire morning’s worth of work and was looking for someone to commiserate with him, looking for some kind of distraction.

What he’d seen earlier could almost, _almost_ , be no match for what he’s seeing now, for what he’s _hearing_ now. There is a loop in Erik’s thoughts that Charles knows well, that Charles can’t ever get tired of hearing, and right now that loop is all in a snarl, powerful and delicious and drugging.

_More more more Charles please fuck me fuck me fuck me please Charles please Charles._

Charles shifts on the bed, hissing as the cotton catches a little on his skin, on his cock; his new position means he’s most of the way to upright, and he can see that Erik’s hands are clenching and unclenching, unsteady rhythm, as he works himself up and up and into a frenzy.

“Do you even need me, right now,” Charles murmurs, sending Erik the image of a cat-got-the-cream smile: nothing mocking in it, more like _I’m perfectly happy to stay where I am because I like watching you._

“I, give me orders, tell me what to do,” Erik finally manages to stutter out.

Charles has to hold back the nearly physical rush of _yes yes yes_ that crashes through him at that.

He forces himself back into some semblance of control, and then after that he tries for casual, and isn’t really sure that he succeeds, because when he says “Put one of your fingers in,” his voice shakes near the end.

Erik looks in his direction, eyes unfocused, and smiles - and he does as he’s told.

Charles looks down the bed, at Erik’s heaving body, at his leaking erection against his stomach. _Think about how it feels like to slide in, when you’re already frantic from being all lubed up and having that vibrator inside you - think about it. I want to see what you think of it._

Erik sends him the sensations, _everything_ he feels: the precise bullet-shape and the material of it. Metal, of course, Charles had gotten the damn thing in metal because it was for Erik, to use on either of them. The vibrations from the egg surge and fall away and redouble; Erik shudders as though he’s unable to do anything else. He’s hyperventilating; every inch of him is on overdrive, heartbeat and senses and _needneedneed_.

Charles grits his teeth, fights to ignore his own arousal, tries to keep it going for Erik. “Next finger,” he says, strained.

Erik bites off a curse, arches nearly right off the bed as he fucks himself, as he bears down onto his own hand.

“You look like you’re really lost to it,” Charles mumbles. “So hot for it. So good for me.

“What else do you want?”

“I - you - ”

Erik’s mind is clamoring against his, pleading: _something anything please come please let me come._

Somehow Charles finds the presence of mind to slant a smirk in Erik’s direction. “I don’t think that’s enough. Three fingers, Erik, and then maybe I’ll think about it.”

“Charles,” Erik says.

“Don’t you stop,” Charles says, and he’s all but growling. “Fall apart for me.”

“Hah hah Charles _yes_ \- ” and Erik stops making sense, is all nerves stretched almost to the breaking point.

“Someday I’ll make you suck me off while you do that to yourself,” Charles says.

Erik nods, frantic, lost for words.

In the end, it’s seeing Erik like this that makes Charles reach for himself, stroking off, punishing grip. He practically careens toward his climax, watching Erik and feeling what they’re doing, and it’s too much - it’s too good, he has to break and he has to let Erik break.

_Come for me Erik._

Erik cries out, and he’s gorgeous when he goes completely and utterly still, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and Charles watches avidly as Erik comes all over himself - and that’s when he lets himself fall over, too.

They breathe hard, for a while, after - the room is silent except for the two of them, recovering.

Even the little vibrator is silent when Charles finally rouses himself enough to lean over Erik and pull it out, as carefully as he can.

Erik gestures weakly at him, exhausted, and Charles scrambles into his space, tucking himself into Erik’s side. He presses kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, which is not much, because he’s still wobbly. _Good for you?_

 _It was so much more than just good,_ Erik thinks. _Thank you._

 _And thank you for the show._ Charles yawns, and smiles when he feels Erik do the same. _Sleep now?_

_Yes, sleep. Stay with me?_

_Where am I going, you silly man?_

Erik sends him a rush of warmth, and Charles pulls him close.  



End file.
